Mouth slack, The Jackal works his jaw
as if it no longer fits. In the doorway
his frame shudders reliving failure,
skin taut against his skull.
One more try before his tourist trails
turn to mournful sounds from the river
whose empty-pocketed ghosts
kick up dust and cans along Water Street.
The Liver Birds? Come on then, I’ll show yer.
Only things that don’t change round ‘ere!
Eyes blazing, The Jackal buries all anticipation
as another scalp’s consigned to his deadbeat list.
The spiel about needing taxi fare works;
Cheers, I feel like a bleedin’ beggar!
Pockets his prize as the full moon
resists clouds above Dale Street.
Gold dome tower of a derelict glints,
and The Jackal can almost see his wife
and daughter waiting, smiling as they turn,
beckoning for him to hurry.
No torture left in that yellow moon,
he joins the stream of others rushing home.
Reviews
No reviews yet.